


Guardian Angel

by hiddenoptimist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Death, F/M, Homelessness, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:05:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenoptimist/pseuds/hiddenoptimist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She fell from the sky. Fearless, brave and courageous, she defends them with her life. They were destined to be together, the six of them. She's their guardian angel.</p><p>Well, that's what Louis claims, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rough

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a different version of my Guardian Angels series. It will eventually turn into multi-fandom, but for the moment it's just One Direction. Tell me what you think?

I rubbed my eyes. Two days straight I'd been awake. I hadn't been able to find a safe place to sleep last night, so I'd kept wandering. Now that the day was drawing to a close, I doubted I'd find a place tonight either.

Stifling a yawn, I looked about. There were plenty of doorways around, but I didn't think I'd be able to get much rest without being pushed away or arrested. This street was filled with large houses, almost mansions. Definitely the more expensive part of London. Each house had a tall, iron-wrought fence topped with spikes to keep away birds and beggars. I could have gotten over them easily, slipped past the occasional pampered pooch, but even I couldn't remain invisible whilst sleeping.

Why wouldn't I want to be arrested? Why wouldn't I want a safe place to sleep for the night? Sure, prison would give me time to rest and something to eat, but I wasn't your average homeless person. I was on the run, not from the police specifically, but they'd only make matters worse. They would either find my record and look me up for life, or they'd send me back home.

I wasn't entirely sure what was worse.

The streetlights flickered on and my body began to sway with exhaustion and hunger. I could risk sleeping on one of these doorways. I'd probably manage to wake up with the sun and get away before I was caught. Besides, the risk of dying from lack of sleep was currently higher than the risk of getting arrested. I just had to find a house far enough away from the CCTV cameras.

I walked a few more feet and came to the last house on the street. The same fencing guarded the house. Peering through the bars, I examined my target. There was an expensive car in the garage. The house was easily built for a small family. Maybe I could scrounge their bins for leftover food in the morning.

I came to the front gate. There was a simple wooden plank across the back, secured with a padlock. I fished my hairpins out my pocket - they were one of my few possessions, and I probably would have died without them. They'd never been worn in my hair, however - and picked the lock. It opened easily. I lifted the bar, feeling the sting of pain in my ankle, and slipped inside, leaving the gate almost exactly as I'd found it. I started up the path.

No sign of a dog. The doorway was spacious and shaded. I climbed the steps and curled up beside the door. Anyone coing out in the morning would disturb me with the door and I would be able to run before they caught me. I tucked my feet beneath me and closed my eyes.


	2. Warmth

I awoke to the smell of something cooking. I must have slept in and now the owners of the house were awake. That meant I had to go, and quickly.

I uncurled myself and was met with the rustling of fabric. Opening my eyes properly, I looked down and found a thick blue duet covering my body. It reached my stomach. I was still fully dress, if not for my shoes, which were lying by the door. Looking around the room, I realised I was in a typical guest bedroom; nice to stay in, but not personalised at all. The door was firmly closed.

I slid out of bed and hobbled over to the window. The curtains revealed the garden I'd walked through last night. So I was in the expensive house. I tried the door. It opened easily onto a hallway with stairs at the far end. They were painful to go down; my leg really had been fucked up. Last night I'd been too knackered to notice. I was paying for it today.

My nose led me to the kitchen. The window was open, letting in the sound of birds singing. Pancakes were stacked on a plate beside the stove. I moved closer, inhaling the scent. Home made. I licked my lips.

"I see you're awake."

I whirled around to find a boy standing in the doorway. My hand fell onto the hot stove as I froze, my breathing beginning to speed up. The boy stepped forward, holding his hands out. He was wearing pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. His black hair fell around his face, early morning stubble coating his chin. He blicked at me with dark amber eyes. I'd guess he was about twenty. I forcibly slowed down my breathing. I couldn't show my vulnerability in front of a stranger, he could be hostile.

The smell of burning flesh filled the room. I snatched my hand away from the stove and flexed my fingers. The bottom of my palm had gone red, the skin taut. I hissed in pain, curling my hand into a fist.

"Did you burn yourself?" the boy asked, coming forward.

I backed away, holding my injured hand to my chest. This boy was a lot bigger than I was and he could easily hurt me. He stopped, but I backed away a little bit more. I tripped over the chair leg and fell backwards.

"It's okay," the boy soothed, crouching down too. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. I just want to see your hand." He came a little closer and gestured for my hand. "Please?"

There seemed to be nothing but genuine concern in his eyes. I hesitated, then held out my arm. He grasped my wrist gently and examined my hand.

"We're going to need to put some cold water on that," he murmured, getting to his feet. He waited, presumably for me to follow his lead. I tried to push myself up, but my ankle gave out. "Is your leg injured?"

I nodded. The boy crouched down again, hands hovering above my outstretched foot. He glanced at me, gauging my reaction, before sliding my jeans up my leg.

I suddenly saw a dark, cold room. Hands grasped my bare ankle - I was naked, my clothes lying torn in a pile in the corner - and holding me down. I thrashed and kicked, but to no avail.

_"Hold still, you little slut!"_

I whimpered, backing away from the boy in the kitchen. His gaze was still focused on my leg. My ankle was a deep purple with splodges of dark green and blue, double the size it was supposed to be.

"How long has it been like this?" he asked, finally looking up at me. I shrugged. "Love, we need to get you to the hospital."

I shook my head, alarmed. I couldn't go to the hospital, the police would find me and send me home. The boy sighed.

"Fine," he said, offering me a hand. I didn't take it. "Will you at least tell me your name?"

I just blinked at him. It had been so long since I'd used it I could barely remember it. All I could remember was the name  _he_ gave me.

The boy sighed again. "I'm Zayn," he told me. "Would you like a shower? You can use mine and I'll wash your clothes for you."

Slowly, I nodded. The boy - Zayn - wiggled his fingers, offering his hand again. Looking at him, I decided he wasn't the type to attack after offering hospitality and clutched his fingers. He smiled and pulled me to my feet, keeping hold of my hand until he was sure I was stable. Gesturing towards the hallway, he let me go first.

"In here," Zayn told me, pushing open a door to my left. "I'll come back in a couple of minutes to get your clothes."

He turned the shower on for me and left. I waited until his footsteps could no longer be heard in the hall and began to peel away my clothes. I'd worn the, for so long I was sure they'd stick to me permanently. I folded the clothes and left them on the toilet seat. They were nothing special, just a t-shirt, jeans, socks and underwear, but they were some of the only things I'd managed to escape with.

The shower was hot and steamy. I hadn't had one like this for years and it was definitely welcomed. I couldn't remember how long it had been since I'd last had one; I'd lost count of the days. It certainly hadn't been as impressive as this, having probably been in a gym changing room late at night.

I was reading the backs of the bottles when the door opened. The shampoo fell from my hand and I backed fearfully against the wall. The intrudder paused, their silhouette holding something through the curtain.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Zayn said. I relaxed slightly. "I'm just going to wash your clothes. You can wear these until they're dry, okay? There's no underwear though. Take as long as you want."

He left and I moved back to stand beneath the spray again. I revelled in the soapy luxuries and spent a good half hour beneath the water. When I finally stepped out, I wrapped myself in a fluffy towel and took the time to dry every inch of my body.

The clothes Zayn had left me obviously belonged to him. A pair of grey sweats and a t-shirt with some graphic I didn't quite understand lay on the toilet in place of my own clothes. They hung off my small frame, making me look smaller than I was. I squeezed my hair dry and stepped in front of the mirror.

The girl that looked back at me was a stranger. My eyes had sunk into pale hollows, my skin a shade of deathly grey. I dreaded to think about what I'd looked like last night.

I hung the towel on the back of the door and ventured outside. Zayn's voice floated in from the kitchen, so I went there first. He had a phone pressed between his ear and shoulder, a plate of pancakes in his hand. I wasn't sure if they were for him or for me, but I hoped it was the latter. My stomach growled.

"No, Lou, you can't come over," he said, placing the plate on the table. "I have guests." He caught my eye and motioned to the plate, pulling out the chair intended for me.

I sat down, watching as Zayn continued his conversation whilst moving about the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and checking on the washing machine. I cut a bit of the pancake and sniffed it. No sign of drugs. Tentatively, I popped the piece in my mouth. It was good, the best food I'd had in a long time. The outside had cooled enough to become crispy, but the inside was warm and soft.

"Louis, I can't come, okay?" Zayn was annoyed now. "I have someone over. No, it is  _not_ my secret girlfriend. Why not? Well maybe it's because I don't have a girlfriend." Zayn paused, then sighed. "No, that's not why she's a secret. I have to go, okay?"

He hung up, dropped the phone on the counter and sighed again. His eyes met mine over the table.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked wearily.

My mouth was full, so I mimed brushing my hair. He seemed to get it and nodded.

"Hairbrush, got it." Zayn shifted awkwardly. "Do you need to go? Because you can stay here if you want, I don't mind. Gets a bit lonely in this big house by myself. So do you, um, want to stay?"

I thought about it. Zayn didn't appear to be a threat. In fact, he didn't appear to be dangerous at all. I'd have a bed, food, security. He'd eventually want repayment, and so I could use my skills to please him. It was, after all, what I'd been doing for the past six years.

"I mean, you were living on the streets, right?" Zayn continued quietly. "That must have been hell. I'm not forcing you, but you might end up on someone else's doorstep and they could get you arrested. I don't think someone your age should be on the streets anyway. I can help, I can get you off heroin, or whatever. I want to help you."

"I'm not on drugs," I whispered, looking down.

"What?" Zayn asked, surprised.

"I'm not on drugs," I repeated, louder this time. "Not anymore."

Zayn gaoed. He seemed surprised I was speaking and, to be honest, so was I. It normally took a while for me tto adjust, and I had gone a long time without speaking to anyone.

"That's- that's good," Zayn nodded. "So, can you tell me your name?"

I thought about it. I'd been given a new name when I was eleven, but for the past eight months I'd had no name at all. The streets didn't require a name, just a territorial violence.

"I think," I said, surprising myself. "I think it was Bethany."

"Bethany," Zayn nodded. "That's a good name. Well, Bethany, would you like to stay with me?"

I hesitated, then nodded. Zayn smiled, looking relieved.

"Good. Now, I'll go out and get some shopping. You can stay here and make yourself at home, yeah?"


End file.
